The Sage Consults His Prism

it is addressed thusly:
An 'ism' is an attack of the mind on the heart.

it reads:
No way is up, here
Every direction heads outwards
But to where? To the end
Of this mortal dream?

A thousand values twinkle
Their false gold - bright pyrite
Each beckons the hand to grasp
The eye to behold;

But where to put them? A man
must put them in himself; his mind
pressed in with them: stones
In a riverbed;

How long then, as do sieves
Before the mind becomes heavy
And holds no more; the vine
Bears and sags;

Stakes are employed and a wall
And a trellis, but the fruit
Is fetid, the winter comes
And it wilts.

Cast off and uncarved, a block
Unused and unusable, at last
Free of the elemental powers
And ignorant.

Affix my head to my shoulders,
It is not heavy any longer,
But full of breath and dew
An unbloomed bud.

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